Macleod of Dare eBook

But then—­but then—­the beauty
of her! In dreams he heard her low, sweet laugh
again; he saw the beautiful brown hair; he surrendered
to the irresistible witchery of the clear and lovely
eyes. What would not a man give for one last,
wild kiss of the laughing and half-parted lips?
His life? And if that life happened to be a mere
broken and useless thing—­a hateful thing—­would
he not gladly and proudly fling it away? One long,
lingering, despairing kiss, and then a deep draught
of Death’s black wine!

One day he was riding down to the fishing-station,
when he met John MacIntyre, the postman, who handed
him a letter, and passed on. Macleod opened this
letter with some trepidation, for it was from London;
but it was in Norman Ogilvie’s handwriting.

“DEAR MACLEOD,—­I thought
you might like to hear the latest news. I
cut the enclosed from a sort of half-sporting, half-theatrical
paper our fellows get; no doubt the paragraph is
true enough. And I wish it was well over and
done with, and she married out of hand; for I know
until that is so you will be torturing yourself with
all sorts of projects and fancies. Good-by old
fellow. I suppose when you offered me the
gun, you thought your life had collapsed altogether,
and that you would have no further use for anything.
But no doubt, after the first shock, you have thought
better of that. How are the birds? I hear
rather bad accounts from Ross, but then he is always
complaining about something.

“Yours
sincerely, NORMAN OGILVIE.”

And then he unfolded the newspaper cutting which Ogilvie
had enclosed. The paragraph of gossip announced
that the Piccadilly Theatre would shortly be closed
for repairs; but that the projected provincial tour
of the company had been abandoned. On the re-opening
of the theatre, a play, which was now in preparation,
written by Mr. Gregory Lemuel, would be produced.
“It is understood,” continued the newsman,
“that Miss Gertrude White, the young and gifted
actress who has been the chief attraction at the Piccadilly
Theatre for two years back, is shortly to be married
to Mr. L. Lemuel, the well-known artist; but the public
have no reason to fear the withdrawal from the stage
of so popular a favorite, for she has consented to
take the chief role in the new play, which is said
to be of a tragic nature.”

Macleod put the letter and its enclosure into his
pocket, and rode on. The hand that held the bridle
shook somewhat; that was all.

He met Hamish.

“Oh, Hamish!” he cried, quite gayly.
“Hamish, will you go to the wedding?”

“What wedding, sir?” said the old man;
but well he knew. If there was any one blind
to what had been going on, that was not Hamish; and
again and again he had in his heart cursed the English
traitress who had destroyed his master’s peace.

“Why, do you not remember the English lady that
was here not so long ago? And she is going to
be married. And would you like to go to the wedding,
Hamish!”